Be Still and Know: The Sacred Quiet of a Snow Day

A Rare Pause in D.C. That Reminds Us of God’s Presence

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult. Selah

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High. God is in the midst of the city; it shall not be moved; God will help it when the morning dawns. The nations are in an uproar, the kingdoms totter; he utters his voice, the earth melts. The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah

Come, behold the works of the Lord; see what desolations he has brought on the earth. He makes wars cease to the end of the earth; he breaks the bow, and shatters the spear; he burns the shields with fire. Be still, and know that I am God! I am exalted among the nations, I am exalted in the earth. The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah – Psalm 46, NRSV

Washington, D.C., and its surrounding communities (affectionately known as the DMV) are rarely quiet. The constant hum of traffic on the Beltway, the distant wail of sirens, helicopters flying at all hours, and the murmur of political debates fill the air like a never-ending symphony of movement and urgency. The city and its suburbs live at a frenzied pace, where every minute is accounted for and every action feels like a step in a grand political or economic dance.

And then, every once in a while, snow falls.

A snow day in the DMV is a rare and holy pause. The streets that usually pulse with the frustration of commuters grinding their way into the city are, for a time, silenced. The hurried conversations of power brokers and policymakers are muffled under a heavy, white blanket. The world slows down, not by choice but by necessity. For a few brief hours—perhaps a day—the DMV breathes deeply, and we are reminded that life is not always about the next meeting, the next debate, or the next tweet.

This quietness is a gift. In a region where people spend their days arguing about what is best for the nation and world. where neighbors hold conflicting views on policy and leadership, snow reminds us of something deeper: peace is possible. When the snow falls, it covers everything equally—Capitol Hill and corner stores, government offices and row houses. It reminds us that despite our differences, we are all in this together, whether we realize it or not.

More importantly, in a world that often feels as if it is coming apart at the seams, where division and strife seem to be the loudest voices in the room, the words of the psalmist ring true: “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). The quiet of a snow day is an invitation to remember that God is still at work, even when the world seems chaotic. It is a sacred moment where we are reminded that our striving is not what holds the world together—God does.

Snow days do not last forever. Eventually, the plows will come through, the roads will clear, the snow will melt, and the noise of life will return. But for a little while, we experience a foretaste of the peace that surpasses all understanding. And if we are wise, we will take this stillness with us into the days ahead, carrying the reminder that even in the most frantic of times, God’s presence remains.

Be still. And know.

Even in Washington, D.C.